


Solace

by MnemonicMadness



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet, Dom Harold Finch, Dom/sub Undertones, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, John has no feelings of self-worth, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Mild Smut, POV John Reese, Pining, Romance, Sub John Reese, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Writing practice, but he does have a bit of a praise kink, porn without plot but also without porn??, this fic is pretty pointless, you'll know what i mean when you read it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-16
Updated: 2017-06-16
Packaged: 2018-11-14 16:34:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11211942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MnemonicMadness/pseuds/MnemonicMadness
Summary: Sometimes, something goes wrong. Sometimes, he's already too late.Sometimes, they lose a number.





	Solace

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Some semi-graphic violence and implied suicide in the beginning, the rest of it contains mild smut
> 
> Be warned, I am not happy with this fic. I wrote this to practice things I really can't write. Namely John's POV (especially John's POV in this type of situation), kissing scenes and anything beyond that, but mainly this was an experiment to see how much smut my ace-brain lets me write before I weird myself out. This is the result.
> 
> (Tee, thank you so much for letting me complain about this stupid thing! ♥)

John Reese was not a good person. He had no illusions regarding this fact, even without the ample evidence in the files of his previous employers. Files his current employer now owned and, knowing the man, had studied thoroughly.

But sometimes, there was need for people like him. It was up to people like him to do what the good people couldn't. The true question was what needed doing.

He was just as aware of the fact that there was probably no need for _this_. There was no need to feel the perpetrator's ribs snap under his hands that had been well-trained to do this and worse. There was no need for the man's tortured screams or the tears of pain that were barely visible in the dim glow of the streetlights. There was no need for him to shatter his spine and ensure this man would never walk again. But John Reese was no good man, so really, who was he to say what was and wasn't needed? He hadn't recognised the difference in a long time anyway.

All he knew that there was no need for the now lifeless body of their 14 year-old number to be adrift somewhere in the Hudson River. All he knew was that _he_ needed to make sure this man would never harm another child or anyone ever again. He could have ensured this less violently, either way the perpetrator would spend the rest of his miserable life in prison, a good person might have let that be all.

Maybe some part of him had expected to feel the grim satisfaction that had been his reward in his early days in the Agency. He didn't. The perpetrator sobbed and he felt nothing but indifference.

Finally, his earpiece came to life, waking him from the near-trance of violence that had been trained into him and he felt. Felt the bullet that had grazed his neck and the blood soaking into his white shirt, felt the exhaustion and the guilt and the grief over such a young life lost. Guilt that was added to by the reminder that there had also been no need to stay in view of a camera, to make his kind, pacifistic handler watch this. He should've remembered that earlier.

“I believe it's time for you to come home, Mr. Reese. The police are one their way.” Harold told him with a gentleness he didn't deserve.

The man underneath him sagged, body heavy with the unconsciousness John had finally allowed him to escape into. Tying him to the bridge's handrail – just a few steps from where their number had stood only minutes ago, looking at John with broken, tear-filled but oh so young eyes, and when he looked too closely he could see the shoeprints of city dust on top of the handrail – almost seemed like overkill.

In the distance he could hear the wailing of the sirens and any second now the too bright flashes of blue would light of the night. So he drew his jacket tighter around himself to cover the blood and followed his personal siren's call.

The entrance of the library welcomed him with its usual silence, looking desolate with its broken shelves and remaining books. Offering shelter trapped in the same limbo between life and death, existence and concealment, as its occupants. It wasn't until he reached the upper floor with tired, heavy steps that the warm light and soothingly familiar clicking of keys welcomed him. A warmth flooded him that he was just as undeserving of as of his employer's gentleness. A feeling of home.

 _Home is where the heart is_. He entered their small headquarters and Harold met his eyes.

Usually, there would have been a reproachful lecture regarding his recklessness and maybe even his outburst of violence, but the ever observant genius just looked at him for a moment, with that intensity that made John feel stripped bare and vulnerable. With anyone else, he would have hated that feeling.

Wordlessly, his friend got up from his desk and gathered their first aid kit, ushering him to take his seat instead. Harold's clear, intelligent, blue eyes only held kindness when he tilted his head to the side with a gentle nudge, John following his non-verbal command as readily as his spoken ones.

Skilled fingers unbuttoned his shirt, cleaned and bandaged the wound on his neck, washed the drying blood from his skin and he felt more and more of the protective trance melt away. It left him raw and reeling, unable to get a grasp on the control he usually had over himself and with every brush of skin on skin, it slipped further away from him. He had always been defenceless against this man, extensive CIA training all but useless.

His eyes closed of their own volition in perfect trust with the gentle digits playing over such a vulnerable place. A part of him – the one that almost resented Harold's kindness, couldn't accept it and wanted to lash out in its confusion – wanted for those hands to close over his throat and take away his breath, to force him to his knees and hurt him.

Something must have shown on his face because one of those hands moved upwards, delicately running the back of its fingers over his cheekbone in a gesture of comfort and there was no holding back the raw guilt any longer. A single, dry sob was all he allowed himself but his voice was a lot less steady than he'd like when he forced himself to speak.

“I'm sorry.” was all he could manage.

A hand cupped his cheek and tilted his head backwards. The desk lamp's light painted the inside of his eyelids red.

“John, look at me.” Still gentle but an order nonetheless and even just the notion of disobeying seemed physically impossible. At this point, receiving an order was a relief. His eyes opened to find Harold looking back down at him with a mixture of warmth and sadness. “You did everything you could. There will always be numbers we can't save, times where we both are just one second too slow. Your best is all you can do and I have never seen you do anything less than that. This is _not_ your fault.”

God, John wanted to believe him, let his words comfort him the way his presence alone already did. Guilt nevertheless clouded his mind and wrapped itself around his neck, squeezing his throat shut like Harold's hand hadn't. And then, his voice still so gentle and his eyes still full of warmth and a forgiveness John couldn't possibly ever earn, he asked the impossible of him.

“Say it.” Unmistakably another order. He was good at taking orders. Every instinct, both natural and trained into him, yearned to do what he did best and obey, battling the guilt that kept his mouth shut and his airway closed. Desperate, he let his struggle bleed into his eyes, pleading Harold to understand and allow him a way out, but while his handler's expression turned a touch sadder yet, the expectation in it stayed and instinct, the desire to give Harold whatever he asked for, won out.

“It's not my fault.” The words tasted like bitter poison on his tongue, making his voice shake and his eyes sting, but Harold's thumb caressing his cheek left an aftertaste of sweetness.

“Well done. Thank you, Mr. Reese. I know you don't, not yet, but I hope one day you might come to believe it. Until then, please do not forget that I _do_ , even if that might not be enough.” The warmth and honest pride in his friend's voice let him breathe again all while fuelling the guilt and making it burn all the hotter. He wanted to tell him that yes, it was enough, anything Harold gave him was more than enough because it was more than he'd ever deserve, but John could imagine his handler's reaction to him saying something like that. So he kept his mouth shut.

That one, nasty part of his mind was screaming at him and every second faced with Harold's kindness made his skin crawl. A feeling that grew stronger with every second until he wanted to yell at him, to make that kindness fade from those beautiful eyes that haunted his dreams because he didn't deserve to be looked at like this.

He wanted hold on to it, to surrender and let himself be embraced by that warmth. Just this once, just for now, to hell with whatever he did or didn't deserve. He wanted to reach out and grasp the one good, pure thing in his life and he wanted to reach inside himself and scrape out that need because all he'd do would be to taint this thing, this man with his own darkness.

Agonised, he stared up at Harold's unchanged, gentle yet intense expression and more than anything he wanted to make him _react_.

He couldn't have said which one of them had moved first, who had closed the gap between them. There was a moment of surprise at not being pushed away before it was forgotten along with his exhaustion. His world was reduced to Harold's lips on his, pressing just a little too firmly, with a little too much desperation that he returned tenfold. His mouth opened easily for Harold to deepen their kiss, allowing him to steal a taste of spicy take-away, sencha green and redemption, offering everything up in return for the other to take as he pleased.

His hands clutched the desk chair's armrests tightly to stop himself from holding on and drawing him back when his handler pulled away. The world looked sharper to him when he finally opened his eyes again, the colours more vibrant and the pounding of his heart made the wound on his neck throb. He felt exposed, raw and alive.

And almost but not quite there smile played around the corners of his handler's kiss-reddened lips when the hand slid along his cheek to settle on his jaw and dragged a thumb roughly over his own lips.

The “Please.” escaped him without his permission or conscious thought, voice fading away after that single word. He didn't know what he was asking for. He didn't need to. Harold reached out and pried his hand loose from the armrest and the moment he pulled it forward to settle it against the smooth fabric of his waistcoat, John realised he'd been pleading for permission to touch him. The finely woven threads felt heavenly under his palm, but that didn't even get close to the feeling of warmth seeping through the expensive cloth and the softness of the body it hid.

Harold's now free hand stroked up his arm, over where the ruined shirt hung off his shoulder, and traced the edges of the pristine wound dressing. John watched his expression turn sadder again, a touch of desperation filtering in and the remains of his heart clenched with helplessness, wishing he knew what words to offer for comfort. But it was only seconds until he was released, until finally those skilled fingers moved on to grasp his chin and pull him upwards. He followed them eagerly and was rewarded with another kiss.

The first touch of Harold's lips was as gentle as the man himself at first, but it soon grew firmer and demanding and as he freely _gave_ , he felt something settle in his mind, something finally coming to rest, finding peace. Demand heated and grew into passion and he barely noticed the burn in the muscles of his legs where he half-stood or the crick in his neck where it was craned back so Harold could reach him comfortably.

The warmth beneath the waistcoat became more tempting with every passing second and it was almost against his will that he moved his own hand upwards. He had been only half aware of his intentions until his fingers brushed the row of polished buttons and Harold's wrapped around his own. A small, desperate noise escaped him when the kiss was broken, yanking him back into reality.

“John. Are you sure?”

All he managed was a dazed nod before he leant forward, chasing the kiss and being granted a soft brush of lips before Harold pulled back again.

“I'm afraid I will have to insist on a verbal confirmation.” His voice was firm and bore no arguments while John himself was already nearly beyond words.

Had he been able to think clearly, without mental exhaustion to weigh him down and guilt suffocating him, he might have reconsidered. Like so often before, he would have told himself that this was a risk to the friendship he couldn't live without. That for the other, this was probably just a casual thing or even just a one-time offer. But now all he knew was the need to be closer, to let Harold's light fill his darkened heart, to find a moment's solace in his touch and stop thinking. He would trust his partner's and his own professionalism that this wouldn't damage their working relationship and even though the man didn't know it, he had already given his everything over to Harold anyway. He would greedily take whatever he was offered in return.

“Please. Yes. I'm sure.”

A look of relief crossed his partner's face for the fraction of a second and he was rewarded with another kiss, short but charged with intention.

“Then I believe it would be best for us to relocate. The cot in the break room is hardly luxurious, but it should serve our purposes adequately.”

Contentment filled him when he realised that Harold wasn't suggesting, he was _telling_. It should have been discomforting to have someone read him this easily, take one look and recognise what he needed, but all that filled him at this was relief.

Harold released his hand, reaching up to his shoulder and lightly caressing the edge of the bandage again with a small sight. “I wish you weren't so careless with your life and well-being.” he told him sombrely, with just a hint of pleading in his voice that left him speechless, but obviously Harold knew him well enough to not expect an answer.

John shivered when he felt his partner's breath on his exposed collarbone, followed by soft lips pressing into his pulse point before following the path his fingers had laid out. Fingers that now curled around the bloodstained collar of his shirt and brushed it aside. Reluctantly he let his arms fall to his sides, away from Harold's chest, letting the ruined, expensive fabric slip from his body. It was impossible to hold in a soft sound when those lips placed butterfly kisses along his jawline.

Just when he had found the courage and presence of mind to chase them with his own, Harold stepped away again. He didn't have it in him to feel embarrassed at the desperate noise – almost a whimper – that escaped him then, not when it made Harold smile at him like this, with a hint of smugness and unbearably fond.

There was nothing for him to do but follow in a daze when his hand was grasped and Harold slowly, limping, lead him away from their main workspace. The smile lured him like a moth to the flame. There might have once been a time when he would have worried that it'd burn what was left of his heart, but it wasn't really his anymore, was it? It was Harold's to do with as he pleased and he knew Harold wouldn't hurt him. Not intentionally. If he wound up hurt by this, it was his own choice and it would be worth it. Even if this would be the only time they did this, the only time he'd be allowed this close.

He had barely noticed their surroundings when they crossed the hallway and finally stepped into the break room. The click of the light switch sounded oddly final, a last confirmation of what was about to happen as the warm light filled the small, windowless room, giving Harold's soft skin a beautiful glow and making his kiss-red lips shine. John's breath hitched at the sight. A small spark of light was reflected in the topmost, polished button of Harold's waistcoat, tempting, taunting him.

“You _are_ allowed to touch me, Mr. Reese.” Harold reminded him, voice low and playful and wearing a matching smile. “In fact, I'd encourage you to do so.”

He leant in again, offering his lips to Harold and pouring out his gratitude when his silent request was granted. Daring, he carefully wrapped his arm around the smaller man's waist, the low hum against him encouraging him to pull him close enough to feel the entire length of the softer body pressed against his own, leaving just enough space for his hand between them. The buttons were smooth and warmed by their combined body heat, slipping through their holes easily. The thicker fabric parted and allowed him to slide his hands underneath, leaving only the thin dress shirt to separate him from the warmth.

On his bare back, Harold was tracing his countless scars. The skin of the deeper, numb ones seemed to come to life with a pleasant tingling under his touch and the other, sensitive ones sent shivers through him. The soft and sudden but painless scratch over one of them forced a moan from him and Harold pulled away again to look at him. The smile he gave him looked... _delighted_. He had to smile back, heart racing, each beat aching with unspoken longing.

With a small shrug, the waistcoat fell to the floor and one of the hands moved away from his back. He watched, captivated, as Harold took off his tie, nimble fingers opening the top three buttons of the dress shirt and revealing an enticing bit of skin and greying chest hair he had the urge to rub his cheek over.

Those same fingers hooking into the waistband of his slacks distracted him briefly from the sight and the playfulness returned to Harold's clear, blue eyes. For a moment he was almost overwhelmed by the wave of protectiveness and adoration he felt for the genius. God, he hoped this wouldn't be the only time for them. Even if he would never have the _everything_ he wished for with Harold, he would live a happy life if he just got the opportunity to put that look on his face every now and then.

“I believe you are somewhat overdressed for the occasion.” But his fingers slipped out of his waistband and he stepped back, walking across the room to sit down on the edge of the bed they used for larger injuries or when one of them was too exhausted to go home after a number. The look he gave him was half expectant and half appreciative. John had to swallow thickly and take several deep breaths until he could push aside enough of the heat clouding his mind to reply.

“So I take it you want _me_ to fix that?” he forced out, voice shaking and even rougher than usual. At least he had managed a full sentence.

Harold pretended to contemplate his question for a second. “That is the general idea. I suppose it doesn't come as a surprise for you that I like to watch.” he told him, tone pleasant like he was making small talk about the weather and not telling John to strip for him. The desire in his eyes when he unhesitatingly did as he was told poured liquid fire through him.

It took all of the soldier's discipline ingrained into him to stay there, standing in a perfect parade rest, not moving a muscle while Harold looked his fill. Harold, whose face was carefully unreadable with the exception of his darkening eyes. Harold, who despite having only lost his waistcoat and tie, whose dress shirt still only had three buttons undone, looked downright _indecent_. Harold, who didn't know that he _owned_ John, that there was nothing he could ask of him he wouldn't do, that every smile from him made John feel as if a part of his blackened soul was cleansed and saved, that his voice was the only anchor for John's sanity.

Harold, who could read him like an open book – and read him like John was one of his prized first editions, as if he somehow was something worth his appreciation and care and _god_ he didn't deserve it but he would give anything to not have that change – and saw the exact moment he would've been ready to beg for the permission to throw himself at his feet.

“Come here.” he said softly with a smile, and with two large steps John was directly in front of him, sinking to his knees as gracefully as he could. A mixture of pleasure and surprise on Harold's face was his reward, his own pleasure in response making him shiver. Something inside him that had been off-kilter for longer than he could remember suddenly seemed to regain its balance. Kneeling here at Harold's feet, stripped of all protective layers physically and emotionally, vulnerable in a way he hadn't thought he could still be and perhaps even more so than he'd ever been, he felt at peace. Like the comfort a devout sinner got from praying at the altar.

By any means, John had never been a man of faith, but Harold was far more tangible, more consistent and reliable than anything he'd ever believed in. For as long as he was allowed, he would happily worship him.

Fingers tangled in his hair, not quite gripping, just making their presence known as Harold reached out with his other hand to run his thumb over John's lower lip. For all that he tried, he couldn't resist letting him mouth fall open and catching the digit gently between his teeth, getting a taste of salty skin. The soft gasp it earned him made his heart race even faster. The grip in his hair tightened just enough to keep him in place when Harold withdrew his hand, only to slowly trace the lines around his eyes.

“You are magnificent.” he sighed roughly when John leant into his touch, sending yet another shiver through him.

It was the easiest thing in the world to let himself be guided by Harold's hand in his hair and follow his directions. To let all his senses be filled with him, his touch, his taste, his soft noises and words of approval. To let himself stop thinking, he didn't _need_ to think, not when he had Harold to take care of and direct him.

His ability to think was a lost cause anyway when Harold pulled him up for another passionate kiss that made him feel claimed and left them both breathless. And finally he stood back up, their fumbling hands getting in each other's way when more and more of his pale skin was revealed for John to touch. The silken softness of it contrasted with scars left by shrapnel and surgeries and the hand on his chest gently pushing him down onto the uncomfortable mattress gave him the opportunity to kiss some of them in passing.

Harold's every touch left him feeling like he was breaking him apart and piecing him back together, different from before, back to the way he was supposed to be, had been, once, a very long time ago. Fixing him. He could only hold on when Harold opened him up in every way, taking his rightful place inside his mangled heart, filling it up with a light that was too pure for even John to taint. His knuckles were still swollen and stained rusty brown with dried blood that wasn't his own, making Harold's smooth skin look so much paler and more fragile in contrast. They looked wrong there, or maybe it was just strange to see them cause pleasure instead of pain.

Later, once the sweat glistening on their flushed bodies had started to cool them down and he – at Harold's request – had spread the army blanket they kept on the bed that had fallen to the flood at some point over them, he realised that none if it mattered. It didn't matter that he didn't deserve any of this, or that it would probably never be anything but physical for Harold because someone that good couldn't ever possibly fall for someone as damaged and amoral as John, or that he probably shouldn't do this because Harold deserved so much better than him. Not when it made Harold look like this, so sated and content and peaceful, so warm and radiant under the light neither of them could be bothered to switch off. Not when his intelligent, blue eyes shone with a quiet joy and so much fondness.

More than ever, he was defenceless against the affection on Harold's gaze. The control instilled into him was in tatters and left him raw and exposed, yet he felt more at peace than he could remember being ever before, it confused him and left him reeling, unable to regain his balance when the guilt started filtering back in. Until a soft kiss was laid onto his lips, halting the thoughts spinning out of his control.

When it ended and he could open his eyes again, it was to see the endless compassion and warm understanding in Harold's eyes.

“It's okay, John, my dear. I've got you, it's okay.” The arms around him pulled him even closer and their legs tangled together, pressing close, skin on skin. And for the second time that night, Harold gently, firmly told him “I've got you, you can let go.” and just like the first time, his body reacted to the command without his conscious choice and silent tears fell from his eyes as Harold held him tighter. A different kind of release, one of guilt and pain and exhaustion, leaving him drained but making space for the smallest flutter of hope for something _more_ while Harold's arms around him kept him safe, held him together so he could let himself fall apart.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!!!!! I hope you enjoyed this more than I did (because god this thing was a pain to write). I'd love to hear your opinion, so I'd be really grateful if you could leave a comment! :)


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